Rise From The Ashes - A Rathe Decanius Tale
by HeroicJDog
Summary: Sister found. Sister lost. Girlfriend raped. Girlfriend lost. Such is the life of Rathe Decanius - Shadow-Walker. Lost to the depths of misery and despair; his only refuge, curling up inside a wine bottle. But like the fiery bird emblazoned on his cheek, Rathe must overcome adversity and rise... rise from the ashes... if he ever hopes to find Fleur... and have his vengeance.
1. Prologue

Rise From The Ashes

Prologue

Hulda pushed a lock of hair from her eyes as she scrubbed down her bar. It had been another big night in the Bannered Mare and as usual, her counter was stained with mead, ale, wine and blood (a rowdy drunken brawl had ensued resulting in a broken nose and a few lost teeth). Sometimes she wondered whether working behind the bar was worth the paltry pay it brought in. But in these dark times, what else could she do? Adventurer? Dragon hunter? _Pfft, not likely._ She sighed again and returned to the task of scrubbing her counter.

A shadow fell across the bar and Hulda looked up. She frowned as she looked at the strange woman standing before her. _Talk about your adventurer types!_

The woman was all blonde locks, green eyes and practically simmering with sensuality. The menacing tight black armour she wore did nothing to diminish her beauty; rather it accentuated her primal sexuality. Hulda noticed the weapons strategically attached to the woman's lithe body and gave this Goddess her full attention.

"Can I help you?"

The blonde turned her intense eyes on Hulda and spoke in a deeply seductive tone.

"I'm looking for a man."

Hulda couldn't help it. Her lips twitched in a smile.

_Honey, you could have any man you wanted!_

The Goddess seemed to sense Hulda's unspoken thoughts; her own lips curled into a rosebud smile and she leaned on the counter.

"This would be a very particular man. Someone who's been hanging about Whiterun for... oh, about three months now. About so tall... red hair... tattooed face... handsome."

Hulda's brow furrowed into a deep frown and she pulled back from the counter. Her arms crossed her chest and when she spoke next, all warmth had left her voice.

"Oh, _him_. Yes I know him."

The blonde raised one solitary eyebrow and drummed her fingers on the counter.

Hulda snatched up her rag and began vigorously scrubbing her counter top again.

"Try down at the Drunken Huntsman. I hear Elrindir took him in. Gods know why. Damn drunkard killed two patrons and injured my bard in the blink of an eye. Been brawling with guards and common folk alike since he's been in Whiterun. Only reason the Jarl hasn't kicked him out of Whiterun is that he sells his sword cheap and seems happy to take on jobs most sane people wouldn't even dream of doing."

"He's selling his sword?"

The blonde seemed surprised to hear this. Hulda nodded and muttered, "well, when he's sober enough to. Supposed to guide and guard a nobleman to Falkreath a few weeks back. Got as far as Riverwood before he drank himself stupid and the noble man ended up having to go on alone."

"Tell me, this drunken sell sword. What does he call himself?"

Hulda shrugged and continued scrubbing her counter.

"Didn't give his name. Folk around here started calling him Phoenix on account of that tattoo on his face and it just stuck. But mostly, if you go up to anyone in the streets and ask for the Mean Bastard, they'll direct you right to him."

The Goddess rubbed her chin thought fully and mouthed the word Phoenix. She dipped a hand into her pouch and pulled forth a handful of septims. She flung them at the Innkeeper and said in her seductive tone, "Take these for the information... and for any damage the Mean Bastard's brought you."

Hulda frowned down at the coins and looked back up at the woman.

"Who are you to him? Some kind of family?"

The woman smiled and suddenly all sensuality about her was gone; there was only predatory darkness left.

"Something like that."

She turned and strode out of the Bannered Mare without a second look.

* * *

**This book is a direct continuation of Rathe Decanius - The Shadow Walker. If you haven't read that I suggest you do so before delving into this tale!**

**To all my regular readers; thank you for your comments at the end of Book one. It was thanks to you all that I decided to upload Book Two. I couldn't leave you with the tragic ending of Book One!**

**Hope you all enjoy Rathe's continuing tale.**

**Cheers**

**HeroicJDog**


	2. The Mean Bastard

Rise From The Ashes

Chapter 1

The Mean Bastard

Roland 'Red' Grim-Boar was a big man.

And a bully.

He ran a gang of mercenaries and boasted that he had the ear of Kodlak Whitemane of the Companions guild. All those who had the displeasure of knowing Red knew that he didn't have so much as the directions to Jorrvaskr let alone the ear of so great a warrior. Nonetheless, Red commanded a certain respect within the walls of Whiterun. A respect born of a healthy fear of getting a serious beating if one crossed him, sure. But respect nonetheless.

Red was feeling particularly boastful as he strode into the Drunken Huntsman on that grim, rain soaked night. As usual, he was accompanied by two of his so called mercenaries (actually little more than illiterate thugs), and he walked with his accustomed swagger.

He slammed his fist down on the counter and called for ale as he shifted the heavy belt on his broad hips to a more comfortable position.

It had been at least three turns of the moon since he and his gang had last graced Whiterun. Red was pleased to see that the whelp of an elf that ran the bar still beheld him with wide, fearful eyes and scurried to fetch him meat and drink hastily.

Red sniffed and gazed around the dim tavern lazily.

He loved the Drunken Huntsman.

The Bannered Mare had better food, prettier women and a decent bard. But the Huntsman… well, the Huntsman had gambling, better ale… and looser women.

Red eyed the barmaids scurrying about and turned his nose up in disgust.

_Elves_.

Probably damned kin of the fellow who ran the place. He snorted again in disgust. Red could not abide Elven women. Too bony and too fiery for his taste. He preferred a woman with meat on her bones… and a broken spirit.

He persisted in gazing through the smoky haze of the Inn and finally found her.

A little Imperial lass tucked away in the corner, stacking shelves with heavy pewter goblets. She was dark of hair and probably barely fourteen years of age but Red knew who she was… she had too much of her mother's look about her for him to mistake her.

Mila Valentia.

Red had lusted after her shapely mother for many a year but the woman was always surrounded by a gaggle of suitors. She'd never cast Red more than a fleeting glance and seemed not at all to be intimidated by his title as mercenary nor his grim countenance.

Well it seemed as though the Gods wanted old Red to have a taste of Valentia sweetness after all.

Red threw a meaningful look towards his two companions and hitched up his sword belt again. He strode through the Inn toward the young girl, unaware that he bumped into a table as he swaggered by. An empty wine bottle on the table danced precariously and would have fallen had a gloved hand not snatched it up with a movement faster than lightning.

Red continued past the table, still unaware of the patron sitting there in the shadows… and unaware that pale eyes were now fixed on his back.

Mila Valentia glanced up as the big man ambled towards her and she shrank back, thinking to give the man room to push past her and head into the storeroom beyond. He stopped just in front of her however and leaned on the shelf she was busily stacking.

"How are ya?" Red drawled in low and somehow menacing tone.

The girl clutched the tray of remaining goblets to her chest as she looked up into the dark brown eyes of the man before her. He stank of sweat and road grime and the axes at his sides were still covered with gore from a recent kill… or kills.

"uh… if you want anything you need to talk to Elrindir."

Red's smile twisted into a foul leer and he leaned closer to the girl.

"Oh I want something alright. But Elrindir doesn't have what I need…"

The girl's frantic eyes flicked from the big hulk before her to the bar where Elrindir was watching intently. She twitched her hand to show her distress and watched as the elf lowered his gaze to his counter. He took up his rag and began rubbing his bar vigorously.

Sudden insight struck the young girl; he wasn't going to help her. At the tender age of fourteen Mila suddenly understood the horrors of the world she had been born into. She trembled and tried to slink backwards but Red's big meaty hand shot out and grabbed her arm hard enough to bruise flesh.

"Oh no love. You're not going anywhere."

Neither Mila nor Red heard the chair scrape on the wooden floorboards. Because it didn't.

Neither Mila nor Red heard the man approach. Because he was silent.

Neither Mila nor Red heard the hiss of steel as a dagger was drawn… but both jumped violently as a gloved hand suddenly grasped Red's hair, yanked his head back and pressed the blade to his grimy throat.

Red gave a strangled yelp and the girl dropped her tray of goblets. They crashed noisily to the floor alerting the entire Inn to the little drama unfolding.

A tall man with long, unkempt hair the colour of ripe strawberries had his lithe, leather clad body pressed against Red. He held the merc in a tight hold with one hand while the other steadily pressed a glinting steel blade against his throat. Red's face had turned the same shade as his name and the girl before them was pale and shaking.

"It seems to me that the girl doesn't care to be bothered."

The man's voice was soft and almost nonchalant; he might have been telling the merc the time… not threatening his life. Red knew better than to struggle with a blade pressed so close against vital arteries. He slowly raised his hands, palms outward in a gesture of surrender.

"No one's bothering no one here _friend_. Me and the lass was just having a friendly chat, wasn't we?"

He fixed the girl with a glare.

The terrified girl looked from Red's dark, angry face into the cool, pale eyes of the stranger. She swallowed and thought it best simply not to answer and begin edging away.

"As I said, it seems as if the girl doesn't want to be bothered. Why don't you finish your drinking in the Bannered Mare tonight?"

The knife vanished from Red's throat and, freed, he spun around to look at this would-be-hero.

Red unwittingly took a step backwards.

He found himself staring into the pale, soulless eyes of a tall man with a hard face. His lips were pressed together in a thin, angry line and an unkempt beard covered part of an intricate tattoo that twirled over the left side of his face. He wore aged and weathered black armour, but he wore it easily as one who is long accustomed to wearing armor. Hilts of daggers and blades seemed to protrude from various sheaths on his person and Red _knew_ this man didn't wear them for show.

Three seconds ticked by as Red sized up the man before him. Had it not been for his two fellow mercenaries slowly edging forward, Red probably would have swallowed his pride and slunk out of the Inn…

…and things would have looked so different then….

Everything happened all at once.

Red roared and swung his meaty fist at the man's head. One of the mercs sidling forward drew a dagger and thrust it towards the man's back. The second merc wrapped a hand around a bottle and prepared to smash it over the man's head. And the girl screamed.

In a blur of movement the tall man twisted to the left and avoided Red's clumsy blow. Red staggered forward and his fist collided with the chin of the man wielding his dagger. Both men stumbled sideways into the third man with his wine bottle and all three crashed against the table.

As Red staggered to his feet, the tall man spun around to and delivered a sickening punch to the man's face. Cartilage ground and bone snapped.

Red groaned and coughed at the same time and snorted red flecks of blood onto the table. He slumped over as his buddy clambered forward and slashed with his now broken bottle.

The tall man dodged once, then twice as the merc came at him.

The tall man jostled into the frightened girl and roughly shoved her backwards with one hand as he brought his free hand up to block another swing from that jagged bottle. Glass shattered against his leather armor but the man paid it no heed. He jabbed tightly with his right hand and punched the merc square between the eyes.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

The merc swayed unsteadily then dropped to his knees. He was out cold before he hit the floor.

The final merc, recovered enough to stumble to his feet looked down at his two fallen men. He glanced up into pale eyes and saw the man preparing to swoop down on him.

The merc turned and ran from the Drunken Huntsman.

Mila peered around the back of the leather clad man at Red and his unconscious friend; and the fearsome mess they'd left behind. It had all happened so quickly that she hadn't had time to swallow her terror. A good thing too, for when the tall man swung around and faced her, those pale eyes of his lanced her anew with fear.

He met her eyes for barely a moment before looking away again.

"You best get home girl. This is no place for the likes of you to be working."

Mila's hands groped at her skirt with a nervous fluttering motion as she looked up at him. Side on, as he was now, with those terrible eyes away from her, he was quite handsome. Or would have been had his face not drawn back into its hard edged ruthless candor.

He started to turn away and Mila, emboldened by the strange attraction she felt for him, reached out and tugged his arm.

"Please… let me… I mean… thank you…"

He swung back to her again and there was nothing remotely warm about him now.

He leaned down to her and she flinched.

"Don't thank me. Just quit your work here and get back to your mother, girl."

Mila frowned, her fear now tinged with anger.

"I worked hard to get this job!"

The man's face darkened and he snapped, "and did that bastard elf tell you how hard you'd have to work to keep it? How much cock you'd have to suck? How far you'd have to spread your legs?"

The red flush on Mila's cheeks drained away and her mouth flopped open.

He hadn't finished though.

"You're a child playing in a filthy world. A man's world. And I'm sure Carlotta would flay the skin off you if she knew you were here. What'd you tell her huh? Working at an Inn? Yeah sure. Which Inn? The Bannered Mare?"

Mila lowered her eyes, thoroughly embarrassed and chagrined.

The man leaned down closer and Mila could smell the wine on him. She suddenly wondered if her 'savior' was much better company than Red lying unconscious on the floor at her feet. She shrank back and yelped when his hands grabbed her upper arms.

"Go. Home. And don't let me see your face here ever again… or next time I won't intervene."

He shook her to emphasize his point and when he let her go tears were trickling down her face like rain. She sniffed back the clear fluid that threatened to run out of her nose and faced him defiantly.

"I hate you! Everyone hates you! Why don't you just leave Whiterun!"

She shoved past him and fled as though a Daedra was on her tail.

The tall man didn't even turn to watch her go. He looked down at Red and his companion and stepped over them to an upright table. He sank into an accompanying chair with a heavy sigh. He raised a hand and snapped his fingers and within moments Elrindir himself appeared with a bottle of wine clutched in one hand and a goblet in the other.

"Phoenix. What can I say? I truly _wanted_ to help the girl but my business dealings with Red would've –"

The man snatched the bottle from Elrindir's hand as he was pouring and raised it to his lips. He took a good long pull before lowering it again.

"Bring another." He rasped, his pale eyes drifting towards the crackling fire blazing merrily in the hearth.

Elrindir nodded and started scampering away.

"And Elrindir… hire that girl again and I'll have your ears for a necklace."

The softly spoken words halted Elrindir in his tracks, and like Mila moments before him, all colour drained from his face. He turned and looked over his shoulder but the Phoenix was still staring into the dancing flames. Elrindir gulped and hurried back to his bar.

The Phoenix was lost in dark, snarling thoughts when a voice cut through the silence of the room.

"You really _are_ a mean bastard."

His gaze snapped up and one hand went to the blade at his side.

His pale eyes met her vibrant green gaze.

He sighed deeply.

"For fucks sake. Can't you leave me alone?"

The woman smiled broadly and sidled close to him.

"Hello to you too… handsome."


	3. Bottled Emotions

Rise From The Ashes

Chapter 2

Bottled Emotions

Astrid followed behind Rathe through the balmy dusk of late evening. They'd left the walls of Whiterun behind then and walked in silence; Rathe two steps in front of Astrid, no matter how hard she tried to keep up. She knew he was not pleased at seeing her. In fact he was positively pissed. But, a pissed man never stopped Astrid.

He stalked through the dusk and gradually she could make out the dim glow of a fire in the distance. As they approached, Astrid's nose wrinkled in disgust. The strong decaying odour of death came to her. Rathe was heading to a small recess cut into the hill on which Dragonsreach perched like some majestic bird of prey. Surely he's not living here, she thought.

A very rough, crude and poorly sheltered camp filled the recess; complete with smoking campfire, rickety wooden table and chairs, thin bed rolls and stacks of crates and barrels. A smuggler's cove if ever she'd seen one. As they approached she heard the buzzing of flies despite the approach of night. She glanced around and noticed the outline of four dead bodies stacked on top of one another, downwind of the camp. It didn't matter; the smell was still overpowering.

"Nice place you've got here, handsome."

Rathe didn't answer. He moved further into the camp and reached out and took hold of a wine bottle sitting on the table. He shook the bottle and frowned as the liquid slosh that greeted his ears spoke of a nearly empty bottle. Astrid watched and frowned. She remembered his vehement loathing of alcohol which bordered on obsession. Not that long ago he'd have rather drunk troll piss than alcohol… yet here he was, urgently reaching out for the dark liquid.

"So… doing well then I see?"

Rathe finally turned and fixed her with his pale eyes.

"What do you want Astrid?" His voice, cold and hostile, still managed to make her shiver with anticipation. She slid through the night until she was as close to him as she dared. She could smell the wine on him, but also that unique musky, man scent that was unmistakably his alone. She couldn't say she appreciated the lank hair or unkempt beard on him; it hid that muscular jaw and prematurely aged him.

"What do I want? Well, what do you think? One of my family goes missing; I get worried."

Rathe snorted and folded his arms across his chest.

"Right. You're worried about me. Stop fucking around Astrid."

She couldn't help smirking. She loved antagonizing him.

"Ok, you want to know the truth? There's a contract out there for a vampire and an orc that still hasn't been fulfilled. A contract I remember giving you over four months ago. Not to mention that I need your help with a personal matter… that little cock Cicero is causing all sorts of havoc in my sanctuary."

Rathe raised one eyebrow.

"That's it? Work?"

Astrid's lips turned up into a full sensuous smile and she leaned in to him.

"Well, that… and I have to admit… I missed you."

"Well your contracts and your family can go to Oblivion, Astrid. I'm out."

Astrid wasn't surprised by his reaction. Despite only now approaching him, she'd been keeping close tabs on Rathe for two months. She knew the recent happenings in his life…

Sister found.

Sister lost.

Girlfriend raped.

Girlfriend lost.

Heartbreaking.

Truly.

"Tsk tsk. You know you can't just say, I'm out, and that's the end of things… there's a certain matter of a vow you took when you joined."

Rathe's scowl deepened and he leaned down to her.

"I didn't take any Gods Damned vow and I didn't join your family Astrid. I was helping you to get information. Information that is now no longer needed. And thus ends the arrangement." He started to turn away when she reached out and grabbed his arm.

"Rathe. All I ask is for you to hear me out. I have a proposition you might be interested in… and perhaps information that you do need. Information about… Fleur?"

He didn't turn but his muscles tensed beneath her hand.

"Not interested." He rasped.

Astrid leaned up to him to whisper in his ear. "No… not at all. That's why you drink yourself senseless every night and live in this hovel of a camp, away from people. Away from those who care about you…"

He didn't answer.

"Just hear me out Rathe."

He finally looked over his shoulder at her and the rage in his eyes was blazing.

"Speak." He said in that soft voice that usually preempted imminent death. She shook her head and a sly smile came to her lips.

"Not here. This place offends every sense I have."

Rathe gritted his teeth then growled, "where then?"

Astrid smiled.

"I know a place…"

* * *

The roar of a waterfall reached his ears long before he could see it. Astrid didn't take the well-worn path between Whiterun and Riverwood, rather she kept to the shrubby overgrown wilds beside it, slinking between shadows and rocks. Rathe didn't mind; in truth he preferred staying out of sight. It was his natural instinct and a recent preference to be out of sight of curious eyes. He didn't ask where she was taking him. He knew she wouldn't have answered straight anyway. Probably a lie or a quip would have fallen from those sensuous lips but certainly not the truth.

She reached a slight outcrop of rocks that overlooked a rushing waterfall. She glanced down for a moment before elegantly leaping over and dropping to the riverbed eight feet below. Rathe launched himself after her and splashed into the ankle-high river bed. He scowled at her; not appreciating having his boots filled with water and was rewarded with one of her infuriating girlish smiles. She motioned for him to follow with a gentle jerk of her head and he moved behind her as she pushed aside some overhanging greenery to reveal a cave entrance; narrow and slick with wet slime. Rathe followed her inside, his eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom within and frowned as he noticed the rough cave floor give way to a stone path, and slightly beyond that, stone steps leading up to a wooden door set inside the cave.

Astrid turned to him and was obviously pleased with the confused look he wore.

"Oh this is just one of the Brotherhood's many hidey holes where a family member in need can slip away to. I've found this place… useful… on a number of occasions."

Rathe said nothing and merely looked at her. She was not at all off put by his reaction. Instead she fished about in her pouch for a large iron key and inserted it into the lock. A loud click preceded the door swinging slowly open and she sauntered in without a backward glance. Rathe followed, neither hesitant nor eager to enter these strange, hidden premises.

He was greeted by a dimly lit but sophisticated chamber replete with luxurious trappings and every practical amenity that a weary assassin could possibly need. He stood in the stone hallway, aware of the thundering rumble of the waterfall overhead and took in the surroundings. A forge glowed in one corner of the long hallway, and some pleasant potion was bubbling on an alchemy table. Rathe frowned and realized someone had been living here very, very recently for candles to be lit and potions brewing. He had a sudden inkling just how closely Astrid had been lingering…

Further down the hall he could see a plush, inviting wooden bed stuffed with thick straw and swaddled in expensive linens and furs. He briefly wondered how it would feel to lie on a soft bed again. The sound of jingling armor drew his attention and he turned.

Finally a look of shock touched his features and Astrid had the small victory she'd been hoping for. She had removed her leather armor and paldrens and was working on her gloves and arm straps.

"What are you doing" Rathe snapped.

Astrid glanced at him then looked back down at the buckle she was fiddling with.

"Well, I've been sweating like a pig in that dusty town and desperately need a bath… and I've got news for you my dear… so do you."

Rathe frowned and watched as she dropped the arm straps and began peeling off her undershirt. It certainly was soaked through with sweat and was stuck to her amble bosom. She didn't turn away as she revealed her golden skin. Rathe didn't look away either. In fact, his pale eyes slowly travelled up and down her body. _Gods_, he thought.

Astrid smirked again and, wearing nothing but thin panties, lightly stepped into the deep in ground bathing pool that was fed with pure, fresh spring water from the waterfall above the cave. Glistening beads rolled across her golden skin as she dove beneath the water and resurfaced. She cast a look over her shoulder and called out, "trust me honey… you need a bath more than I do."

Rathe still didn't move but he was staring at her with a fierce intensity in his eyes. Astrid splashed about in the pool and when she straightened up she flung a small bundle of cloth at Rathe. The bundle plopped wetly at his feet.

Her panties.

He looked into her eyes; those shockingly green orbs, and he found his breathing deepen and a familiar tug deep within his loin. Astrid recognized that look… recognized it well.

"How long has it been Rathe? Since you lay with a woman?"

She gently moved her arms through the water, sending little ripples through the pool that obscured her naked body from view. She raised one leg out of the water tantalizingly, revealing a foot, a shin and a shapely thigh before lowering it slowly.

"Was it me? Was that the last time?"

Rathe's fingers clenched along with his jaw and a small vein throbbed in his temple.

"Or was it your little flower? Did you get a chance to taste her sweet nectar before that Nazeem did? Did you get to pluck her petals dear? Or was her hedge pruned by him first?"

Rathe suddenly lurched into motion. He ripped his sword belt off with such savagery that leather ties snapped and buckles broke. He flung it viciously aside as he kicked off his boots and yanked at his armour. His eyes were smouldering as he ripped away his armour and bared his muscular chest.

Astrid's insides ached for him as he pulled off his leather breeches and strode into the water. He moved quickly and snatched her arm and pulled her towards him. One hand grabbed a fistful of blonde hair and his other held her wrist tightly. He angled her head and brought his lips down on hers crushingly. Astrid returned his lust just as ardently, her hands clawing at his back as he pinned her against the wall. She could taste the alcohol on him; so foreign to him… so intoxicating.

Water lapped around them as they tangled against one another. Astrid gasped as Rathe's mouth moved from hers to her neck… then lower. His lips suckled and licked her hard nipples and Astrid moaned and writhed. His grip on her wrist tightened and he none too gently dragged her through the pool to the stone steps. Rathe flung her down and the water embraced her and cushioned her against the stone steps. She raised her arms as he lurched over her and she felt his knee spread her own legs. She tried to lean up to kiss him again but he turned his face away even as his hips thrust forwards and he entered her powerfully. Astrid suddenly didn't care about kissing; she let out a little cry of ecstasy as her fingers entwined in his hair. One hand clawed at his back and pulled him closer. The waves of the pool sloshed at the edges with their furious motion; candles lying at the base of the pool were extinguished with a sizzle as water lapped over the edge. Rathe was panting with exertion and Astrid cried out and dug her fingernails in his back as he climaxed. He slumped heavily against Astrid, breathing deeply and was gently buffeted by the lapping water. Astrid fought to catch her own breath beneath his weight, one hand still stroking his dark red hair.

Reality began to creep back to both of them and Astrid couldn't hold her mischievous tongue.

"So… I'm guessing you didn't get to pluck her petals then?"

Rathe pushed himself up so he could look at her and Astrid was taken aback at the cold, violence in his eyes.

"Don't speak of her like that Astrid. Ever."

She raised her hands in surrender. His expression told her that this was not the time to mess with him and make further jokes.

"Ok, ok. I'm sorry Rathe."

He kept those cold eyes on her face and made no move to shift from her. Astrid began to feel uncomfortable for one of the few times in her life. He suddenly struck her as akin to a predatory feline; beautiful, powerful, sexual… and utterly dangerous and unpredictable. She did the only thing she could think of that might soothe the beast. A tactic that had worked for her in the past…

She pulled her dripping hand from the water and gripped his hair tightly, drawing him down to her lips. She angled his head so that his ear was at her lips and whispered, "Take me Rathe… take out your anger on me."

He growled and suddenly his hands were surging beneath the water. He flipped her over onto her stomach and she was momentarily winded from the stone stairs smashing against her chest. She felt his body press up against hers and though she couldn't see his expression, she could feel the fury rolling off of him like waves. He thrust into her roughly from behind; exquisite agony.

Then… he took his anger out on her.


	4. Gifts and Games

Rise From The Ashes Chapter 3

Gifts and Games

The lighting in the hideout never changed.

The result of being located underground. Rathe therefore had no idea of the time when he opened his eyes. It could've been morning, noon or night and he wouldn't have known it. All he did know was that he had slept for the first time in months; completely, soundly and without the dreams that had been haunting him of late. He lay on the soft bed for a few moments looking up at the heavy candelabra above. Gradually awareness returned to him and along with it a knot of worry, self-loathing and disquiet settled in his stomach. He sat up on the bed and looked around the dim bed chamber.

"Afternoon, handsome."

Rathe eyed Astrid as she perched on a wooden stool up against a counter. She was nipping at an apple in a highly inappropriate way and one certainly not conducive to satisfying hunger. He frowned and clambered to his feet, feeling fuzzy and out of sorts. His tongue felt coated and he glanced around for a drink.

"The water in that cask is pure spring water, honey. Straight from the waterfall above."

Rathe frowned.

"I'm no Gods damned elk Astrid. I don't want water, I want wine."

"We've got water, Rathe."

He eyed her nastily and when she returned the glare with steadfast intensity he sullenly moved to the cask and filled a tankard with clear water. He drank deeply then with the last remaining mouthful, swished it around in his mouth and spat it back into the cup.

"Charming." Astrid muttered, taking another demure bite of apple. Rathe didn't answer; he merely eased himself onto the stool beside her. She slid a platter of fruit and cheese towards him and he noticed angry bruising on her forearm. Finger marks. His finger marks. He shrugged inwardly.

"Eat something." She said in that low, sultry tone of hers.

Rathe shook his head briskly and raised both hands to his head. His temples were beginning to throb.

"Eat something!" Astrid repeated more forcefully. In a flash of anger, Rathe took hold of the platter of fruit and flung it across the room. Astrid flinched and looked nonchalantly at the scattered fruit and cheese. She turned her gaze back to Rathe.

"You need to eat, Rathe."

From within his hands, Rathe's voice came out, harsh and acerbic.

"I need a fucking drink is what I need."

Astrid's jaw clenched.

"Do you really think you'll find absolution at the bottom of a wine bottle?"

Rathe raised his head and looked her in the eye.

"Absolution? That's funny. I didn't think I needed absolving actually. It wasn't me that sold her into sex bondage Astrid. It was my dear, sweet sister."

"Then why are you beating yourself up for it then? Why are you twisting and writhing in self-torment?"

Rathe looked down at his hands.

"Who says I am?"

Astrid snorted in response.

"No, of course not. A man formerly as dry as a priest on Sundas suddenly turning into a still swilling alcoholic is certainly the behaviour of a man at peace with himself."

Rathe frowned at her; her sarcasm was not appreciated.

Astrid sighed deeply and said, "you can get a drink at the Drunken Huntsman."

Rathe scraped his stool back and stood up at once. Astrid leapt to her feet lightly beside him and snatched his arm in her hand.

"But!"

He swung around and looked at her.

"First, we need to clean you up. A still swilling alcoholic you may be… but that doesn't mean you have to look like one. Aside from certain… interesting benefits of the beard, it does not suit you honey."

Rathe frowned again but let her draw him towards the bed. She pushed him down on the edge and swung around behind him so that she was kneeling close behind, pressed up against his back. He stiffened as one long fingered hand traced the musculature of his chest. He reached up and snatched her hand and shook her off.

"So? No repeat performance then?"

Rathe growled and started to get up.

"Relax! Just… sit." She pressed her hands on his shoulders and made him sit back down. Rathe sat but found he was trembling; whether from rage or from alcohol withdrawal he wasn't sure and didn't care to know. He flinched as he heard the hiss of steel on steel and tensed as Astrid lightly draped over him with her steel dagger in hand.

"Ready?" She whispered low and deep into his ear. Rathe didn't answer. Astrid set to work with the dagger and Rathe closed his eyes and allowed her to.

* * *

Rathe judged by the appreciative smirk on Astrid's face that he'd cleaned up alright. He didn't care. He did care about getting his hands on some wine, getting drunk and maybe then he'd be willing to listen to Astrid's… information… about her. About… Fleur.

He stood up and looked around, only now becoming aware that he was clad in ragged pants with no sign of his armor in sight. He looked up at the woman standing before him.

"Where's my armor?"

Astrid's smile widened.

"It was a bit… worse for wear after you ripped it off last night. I threw it away this morning."

Rathe's face darkened.

"You what?" He said quietly. He took a step towards her and his eyes were all fire and brimstone.

"Oh stand down Rathe. Do you really think I'd leave you bereft and armorless? Much as I love seeing that sculpted chest of yours, it's hardly conducive to good assassination is it?"

The ache in Rathe's temples became a vicious pounding. Gods this woman damn near infuriated him to the point of explosion! As if reading his mind, Astrid sauntered close to him with a big grin and stopped barely an inch from him.

"Go check that wardrobe over there. You might find something interesting, handsome."

Rathe batted her hand away as she tried once again to stroke his bare chest. He glowered at her then turned and strode to the wardrobe. He flung the door open and stared at a set of armour. A masterful set of armour. He reached out and took hold of the cuirass and held it up. Black leather had been worked and reworked to be pliable yet protective, and was lined with soft lamb's wool. Intricate links of chainmail hung from the cuirass but made no sound as he shifted the armour; the sound had been deadened somehow. The buckles and straps were black and seemed to absorb light rather than reflecting it; a useful attribute in an assassin's accoutrement. The quality was impeccable, the cut flawless and he could only begin to imagine the septims such a set must have cost.

He flicked a look at Astrid who was sitting coyly on the bed smiling like a fifty septim whore. Rathe turned back to the armour and deftly donned it. The fit was snug and secure and he marvelled at how the new leather already seemed moulded for his physique. He wondered briefly if she'd had it made deliberately for him? Then he decided he didn't care and continued dressing. He turned back to Astrid, fully armoured and noticed she was proffering him his heavy sword belt. He took it and carefully strapped it to his hips, thinking he would have to procure a bow somewhere along the way before he could continue on with any missions – He stopped short realising that by strapping on the armour his mind had already turned back to work. He realised that he actually missed work. He also realised that this was most likely the reason Astrid had outlaid so much coin on this fine set of armour. He looked at her and scowled.

"Don't think I don't know why you paid for this."

She climbed from the bed and glided towards him.

"Ever the sceptic. Can't this just be a gift between lovers?"

"We're not lovers Astrid."

She put on a mock pout and said, "then a gift between friends."

"We're not even friends."

Her eyes flashed and she pressed her arms over her chest.

"Now that does hurt Rathe."

He shrugged his shoulders and raised a hand to his newly cropped head of hair. Astrid smiled once more and waved one hand dismissively.

"Luckily, I'm a forgiving sort. Otherwise I may just take my information with me and go…"

Rathe breathed out deeply. "Ok. You've made your point. Now. What do you know?"

Astrid turned and started for the door.

"Not here honey. The Huntsman. I think you'll need a few drinks to hear what I have to tell you…"

Rathe followed her out the chamber and soon the pair had left the Whiterun Hideout of the Dark Brotherhood behind them.

* * *

Elrindir's almond shaped eyes widened to near ovals when Rathe and Astrid entered. For half a heartbeat he considered screaming out that the tavern was closed. Rathe's last drinking bout which had ended (predictably) in a brawl, had ended up costing Elrindir nearly one month's profit in repairs… and in reparations to the mercenaries who had been so brutalised. Not to mention the frosty treatment he'd been getting from Carlotta Valentia since – and try getting good fruit in Whiterun from anywhere but Carlotta's stall.

Instead, the elf bowed obsequiously to the pair who breezed past him, shrinking as Rathe paused long enough to glower at him. Rathe called for wine over his shoulder as he followed Astrid to the very same table he'd been sat at the night before when Red and his gang had made the mistake of stopping by for a drink.

He sank into a chair opposite Astrid and within moments Elrindir had arrived bearing Rathe's favourite wine – Surilie brothers – and two tankards. The elf knew from experience that Rathe had no patience for goblets with his wine; it was a tankard or bottle for him thank you very much. As he set to work filling the tankards Astrid stretched cat like and yawned long and loud. This simple movement irritated Rathe for some reason and he snapped, "alright we're here. Now talk."

Astrid made a tsk tsk sound and pushed her lower lip out in a pout.

"Such a lack of manners, handsome. Were you brought up in an orc stronghold?"

Rathe snatched the tankard from Elrindir's hand and drained it in one long deep pull. Elrindir started to back away when Rathe lunged at him and grabbed the bottle in his hands.

"Leave it." He snarled.

Elrindir bowed and backed away again, scurrying back to the relative safety of his counter… and the steel war axe he kept there. Rathe refilled his tankard and only after downing the second cup of wine did he fix Astrid with his pale eyes and make a motion with his hand for her to speak. It never occurred to him to ask her just how she knew the full story of Regan and Fleur… she was Astrid; of course she'd know. Her lips were pursed and she seemed genuinely displeased with him; perhaps because he was paying the wine infinitely more love and attention than he'd ever shown to her.

"Tell me something Rathe."

He raised one eyebrow but didn't answer. Astrid leaned forward in her chair.

"Do you really want to know? Where she is? What she's doing?"

Rathe blinked and frowned.

"What kind of a stupid question is that?"

"Not so stupid some might think. The same some who might wonder why you didn't pursue her before now? The same some who might wonder why you haven't exacted revenge on your sister yet? The same some who might wonder why you crawled inside a wine bottle to drown your sorrows instead?"

The muscles around Rathe's jaw tautened as he clenched his teeth. He looked at the tankard in his hands and was silent for a long time.

"I need to make sure she's alright Astrid."

The woman eyed him and folded her arms across her chest.

"That's it? A health and wellbeing check on the little flower and then poof, you're back out of her life?"

Rathe looked up and there was horrific agony in his eyes; so tortured it was painful to look at.

"I'm not coming back into her life. I want to make sure she's alright… from afar. She'll never know I was there."

Astrid frowned.

"Why? Don't you think she'd want to see you Rathe? Don't you think she needs to see you?"

He snorted and the familiar mask of anger crashed back across his features and any trace of tears in his eyes were rapidly blinked away.

"I think not. What she needs is me far away and out of her life. If I… if I wasn't such a selfish fuck I'd leave her along entirely… but… but I need to make sure she's all right."

Astrid rubbed a hand across her chin. He really thought he was solely to blame for what had happened to Fleur. His fine words last night about not needing absolution and not feeling responsible for Fleur's fate were obviously hot air. She suspected as much. And it was not what she wanted to hear. An alcoholic Rathe she could work with. A vengeful wrathful Rathe she would welcome. A melancholic, self-destructive soulless Rathe was no good to her. There was only one thing for it. She needed to light a fire beneath him; one from the very depths of Oblivion that would spur him into action like the Albino had done years before. And she knew just what would do it…

"It happens that I have quite a few contacts in Skyrim. Men of questionable morals and nefarious dealings."

Rathe inclined his head slightly; this was not news to him.

"I was visiting with an acquaintance, and he had it on good authority that recently a… let's just say procurer… of exotic items recently came across a prize find."

Rathe's face twisted into an ugly scowl.

"A procurer of exotic items? A slaver you mean."

Astrid shrugged. It didn't matter to her what the man called himself; procurer, slaver, merchant… it was all semantics really.

"Well apparently this slaver was bragging about a recent find. He described her as a girl of impeccable beauty but of tortured mind and body."

Rathe looked away, his jaw working tightly.

"There must be thousands of wayward girls who fit that description."

"Oh I agree completely. Which is why I asked my acquaintance if the slaver described her. Fortunately, the man was a boastful sort and apparently couldn't wait to show off his latest acquisition to my acquaintance. He told of seeing a girl of pale, nearly translucent skin, wide and pale blue eyes… with hair the colour of amber."

Rathe's pale eyes met hers and she could see the rage behind them.

"Although I'm sure there are probably thousands of girls who fit that description too."

Rathe leaned forward in his chair.

"Where is this slaver?"

Astrid took a drink of wine before answering.

"I don't know."

Rathe started to rise angrily from his chair.

Astrid held her hand up and continued, "but my acquaintance will be able to find out. I have only to give him the word…"

"Then why didn't you give him the word when you were having this lovely little chat with him?" Rathe hissed as he sank back into his chair.

Astrid shrugged again.

"I didn't know if it was worth spending coin on. I didn't know if you would be interested in knowing."

"Damn it Astrid. You're playing games and you're using Fleur as currency!"

Rathe's face was flushed and his right fist slammed on the table in anger. Astrid's expression darkened and all traces of seductive temptress were stripped away. The hard, cold leader of the Dark Brotherhood peered out from behind those eyes.

"Listen here. I don't do things out of the kindness of my heart Rathe. I do things for the betterment of my family. If I choose to help you to run after your little lost sweetheart, it's because I can see the value in it to my family. And if that means using her, using you or using any Gods damned child in the street then I will. For. The. Betterment. Of. My. Family."

Man and woman glared at each other. Both wore identical expressions of rage. Rathe knew, and had known, all along that this was who – and what – Astrid really was. A cold, calculating viper. He even doubted that she truly did do the vile things she did for the "betterment of the family"; it was more likely for the betterment of Astrid. But, much of a muchness. The result was still the same. If he wanted her help… he had to dance to her tune. Again. A rolling wave of nausea was the final factor in Rathe's decision. His head drummed with pain and he clutched his wine tankard tightly.

"What do I have to do?"

Like a sheet had been thrown over the statue of a gargoyle, Astrid's grim visage was gone and in an instant the sultry mistress returned in her place.

"Only what you promised; complete the contracts I gave you months ago."

Rathe frowned. It was too easy.

"That's it?"

Astrid shrugged again.

"That's it. You take out the vampire and the orc and during that time, I'll have my acquaintance sniff out the whereabouts of this slaver."

"Then I'll meet you back at the sanctuary?"

Astrid shook her head quickly and a grin touched her lips.

"No… that would not be a good idea."

Rathe frowned deeper.

Astrid gave a mischievous little chuckle that grated on Rathe's nerves.

"And why not?" he growled.

"Well… Arnbjorn is… let's just say he wants to make sausages out of your intestines."

"He what?"

Astrid shifted in her chair and her grin widened lewdly.

"He didn't take too well to the news that you and I… bumped pelvises during your last visit to the sanctuary."

Rathe stiffened and scrunched his hands into fists. He looked at her with incredulity in his eyes.

"You told him that?"

Astrid shrugged and still the grin did not slip from her lips.

"We share everything, handsome. I'd have even shared you if I thought he'd be into it… alas, I know my husband well. You're not his type."

"Oh and isn't that a fucking shame!" Rathe snapped.

Astrid slowly slid from her chair and languidly strode towards him. Rathe looked up at her with anger smouldering in his eyes.

"Don't fret honey. But also… don't come into close contact with Arnbjorn for a while!"

She reached out to ruffle his hair and for the third time this morning he slapped her hand away.

"Don't."

Astrid pouted and pressed her hands to her hips.

"Complete the contracts Rathe. Complete them and await for me at the Nightgate Inn. I'll come to you with news of the flower."

Rathe glared at her for a moment and finally nodded curtly. Astrid winked at him, turned without another word (and mercifully without another touch), and sauntered out of the Drunken Huntsman. Rathe breathed out long and hard as he watched her go. She'd left him drained, enraged, confused, shaken and exhausted. But as he took hold of the tankard and gulped down more wine he thought that maybe, just maybe, she'd also left him with a little ray of hope…


	5. Obligations and Mercy

Rise From The Ashes

Chapter 4

Obligations and Mercy

The cool night air refreshed the man sliding through the darkness.

Light drizzle touched his cheeks and refreshed and sobered him. The effects of the two bottles of wine he'd downed in the Huntsman earlier in the afternoon were wiped away with the refreshing touch of a Skyrim night.

After three months of bar room brawling, hired thuggery and mercenary work that required him to do little more than rattle his sword threateningly, stealth and discretion thrilled his burning blood. He moved rapidly, occasionally peering up at the sky to get his bearings against the smattering play of stars.

The grass beneath his boots gave a muffled crunch as he passed; covered as it was with frozen dew and a soft coating of fallen leaves. He wore a wood and steel crossbow strapped to his back and a quiver of bolts hung from his belt.

He'd visited Adrianne Avenicci at her smith in Whiterun to browse her range of bows and when his eyes had fallen on the crossbow he felt like someone had punched him in the stomach.

Fleur had used a crossbow.

Rathe's gloved hands had caressed the weapon gently and before he knew it, he'd tossed some coin to Adrianne and had strapped the weapon to his own back. He was nowhere near as ofay with the crossbow as he was with a bow… yet somehow… he couldn't leave Whiterun without purchasing it.

Secunda suddenly peeked out from behind a scudding cloud and lit the forest he was skulking through so that leaves glinted like silver and low lying fog became a shimmering white.

Rathe avoided the moon beams and kept to the shadows beneath tall moaning boughs. He probably didn't need to move so silently while in the forest (which was alive with the haunting hoot of owls and chirrups of crickets), but he revelled in employing long unused skills.

Gradually as he moved he detected the unmistakable sounds that indicated a large body of water nearby; the rhythmic slap of water against a bank, the burble of frogs enjoying the night and the creak and groan of a water wheel endlessly turning.

He knew long before he saw lights in the distance that he was close.

Half-Moon Mill.

An idyllic and seemingly sleepy mill, nestled between the scented pines and stunning vista of Lake Illinalta. Cheery firelight reflected in the main farmhouse windows. A picture of rural innocence.

The lair of vampires.

It never crossed his mind to wonder why someone wanted to have the male vampire killed.

He rarely questioned the 'why' when on a contract.

His mentor Vaden Dren had expressed vehemently that it was not the assassin's place to question why, merely to carry out the sentence.

_The hand does not question the brain. It merely obeys command._

Rathe's mind was turned to the wisdom of his long dead master as he silently approached the house. He crept around the premises, seeking a basement or back door but the little ramshackle building appeared to have but one entrance; the front door.

He approached it carefully, thinking about how he'd need to sidle beneath the overlooking windows in order to get to the door undetected. Suddenly he felt a stabbing pain explode in his left shin and he stifled a gasp of pain. Rathe looked down and realised he'd barked his shin against a wood pile. One log seemed to roll as if in slow motion and began to topple from the pile. Rathe scrambled to catch it before it made too much noise and alert those inside as to his presence.

Cradling the log in his arms, Rathe gritted his teeth and looked down at his leg. The new leather armor had parted along a seam and a thick ooze of blood was seeping through. He carefully placed the wooden log back on the wood pile and felt a cold trickle of sweat run down his neck and further down his spine.

Never had he come so close to making a Gods awful racket when on a mission.

_What in Oblivion was that all about?_

He became suddenly acutely aware of his dry mouth; dehydration from the alcohol, and frowned.

_Gods… maybe the wine?_

He shrugged inwardly and decided to pursue that line of though no more. Instead he drew a deep breath and refocused on the task at hand. With a renewed look of determination across his handsome features, Rathe slipped up to the door and placed one gloved hand on the knob.

The knob turned easily in his hand.

Unlocked.

Nice.

The door swung open and Rathe slid into the house.

His eyes fell immediately on the broad back of a man seated in front of him at a crude dining table. Rathe held his breath as he quickly scanned the one room shack. The second vampire was lying flat on her back on the bed; her eyes closed as if in sleep.

It was almost a scene of domestic bliss…

…or would have been if the shack hadn't been adorned with skulls, weapons and other grisly trophies.

Rathe didn't wait for a breath or footfall to give him away.

He drew both blades in one fluid motion even as he lurched forward. The seated vampire barely had time to glance over his shoulder; those undead red eyes gleaming in the firelight, before Rathe's blades separated head from shoulders.

The squirting of arterial blood and accompanying thuds of body and head hitting the wooden floor awoke the female vampire. She lunged up from the bed, hissing like some feral cat, fangs out and crooked fingers bent into claws. Rathe twirled towards her and she was quite unprepared for the steel kiss of those blades.

Finger tips fell to the floor with little wet plops and one more whistling swipe of those blades saw her head neatly drop to the floor to roll next to her husband's.

It was over in seconds.

Rathe's pulse was barely elevated.

He looked down at the two bodies that were slowly wrinkling like pieces of fruit left too long in the sun. Eventually they would turn to dust and leave no sign of the blood drinking fiends who had lived here.

Rathe wiped the black blood from his blades on the coarse cloth of the female's dress and sheathed his weapons carefully. He took a moment to look around the little hut properly now that contract was fulfilled.

Probably in an attempt to keep up appearances, a bowl of fruit sat atop the dining table and bottles of honey coloured mead sat unopened next to the fruit. His eyes fell on the crimson bottle beside the mead and he licked his lips.

Alto wine.

Rathe sauntered over to the table and kicked a chair back a few feet. He sat down heavily and took hold of the wine bottle. He watched the dark liquid glisten in the firelight as he poured a cupful in pewter tankard. He brought the liquid to his nose first – to ensure it _was_ wine and not some poor sap's bottled blood – then tipped it back into his grateful throat.

The wine was bitter and tasted like vinegar but warmed his throat and all the way down to his stomach.

Rathe sighed and set to work pouring a second cupful.

The little blaze in the hearth crackled merrily as the assassin sat amidst two rapidly decaying bodies, drinking himself into a stupor.

Rathe's head was splitting again as he marched North.

He bitterly regretted imbibing so much at Half-Moon Mill but the wine had called to him and he didn't have the heart to say no.

The day was glaringly bright; sunshine gleamed off low lying white clouds and created a stunning glare that compounded the ache in his head and left him muttering and irritated. His leg ached where he'd knocked it the previous day and not for the first time, he swore inwardly that when Fleur had left him she'd taken the horse Princess with her.

True, his beloved and vaunted steed, Sicarius, was still back in Riften (hopefully being well tended by that stable boy Shadr who owed Rathe a debt of gratitude). But he'd have given his left testicle to have even the spirited mare Princess between his thighs right now. The steady rhythmic trot of a horse would've been infinitely more preferable than the jolt of his own unsteady footsteps.

He vowed then and there to get back to Riften – _soon_ – to reclaim Sicarius.

The sun was high in the sky and beating down with some ferocity as he passed through the golden red tundra of Skyrim's Whiterun Hold province. He paused beside a cool clear stream and filled a water skin; taking a long pull to rehydrate himself as he walked.

He noticed sun reflected off golden metal long before the thief popped up from behind the shrub he was crouched behind. Rathe smirked at the thief's outfit; stolen elven mail, heavy dwarven boots and a pair of ragged breeches. If ever there was a more desperate skooma-addled miscreant, Rathe hadn't seen one.

"Hand over your money!" the thief cried, clumsily wielding an elven mace.

Rathe eyed the Khajiit and let one hand rest on the hilt of his katana.

"Walk away."

The thief looked Rathe up and down. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen and Rathe knew the look well. His father had worn that same look when Skooma had been his mistress. He knew then that this desperate thief had not the will or wit to walk away.

"Nice try. I'm only going to ask one more time; you're gold or your life."

Rathe sighed.

"I don't have time for this."

He started to move on.

The cat hissed and spat, "don't you walk away from me!"

He lifted the heavy mace in the air and swung it clumsily at Rathe. The Shadow-Walker side-stepped the blow easily and slid his blades between the links in the Khajiit's stolen armour. The cat's eyes opened wide in stunned surprise. He grunted and didn't even realise he was dying as he slurped back off Rathe's blades.

He fell heavily to the earth with his life's blood pumping out of the twin wounds and pooling scarlet and steaming around him.

"Silly fool." Rathe murmured, looking down at the dying Khajiit. He knelt beside the cat as he drew in his last rasping breath and with the exhale, Rathe was washed in the stench of Skooma and death.

He felt compelled to reach out and close the cat's eyes.

He didn't know why.

He straightened up and continued his journey through the tundra... and this time he was uninterrupted.


	6. Wine and Cheese

Rise From The Ashes

Chapter 5

Wine and Cheese

Night had claimed the land when the weary Shadow-Walker finally stepped from murky, swamp surrounded path to cobblestone bridge that led to the little town of Morthal.

A gloomy place by day, it was positively haunted at night.

Churlish guards strode past and glowered at him through the eye slits of their helms. Rathe wasn't sure if grumpy thuggish sorts were drawn to this town or if it was the town that made men boorish. Either way, he ignored the glares and headed toward the grim little Inn that sat atop wooden beam to protect its base from the ever pervasive swamp.

He paused beneath the creaking sign that proclaimed Moorside Inn and remembered the last time he'd had the pleasure of steeping foot in these premises.

He'd been on the trail of the Albino…

…and had recently had a young, innocent come into his life…

Rathe gritted his teeth and felt an urgent need for a drink. He climbed the stairs and entered the smoky little Inn.

The hour was late and most decent, hardworking folk had no honest reason for being awake and within the walls of a local watering hole. It stood to reason that those present were obviously then _not_ decent, hardworking folk. Two men, cloaked and hooded, sat at a small table half hidden in the shadows, bent over low and talking intently. The Innkeeper was lazily sweeping behind her bar while keeping an eye on the only other person in the tavern.

A very unattractive – and very drunk – orc.

Rathe watched the orc for a moment before slowly making his way down to the bar.

"What brings you to Morthal traveller?" the lovely Innkeeper called in a low and sensuous tone. She was a dusky skinned Redguard and though she had some years on her, she was what Rathe would describe as a handsome woman.

"Just passing through on my way to Solitude. Need a bed for the night."

The Innkeeper nodded and smiled guardedly. Her eyes glanced down at the swords on his hips and the crossbow on his back.

Rathe noticed her gaze and returned her smile.

"The wilds are a dangerous place these days for a travelling bard."

Her dark eyes lit up and she said, "You're a bard? A true bard?"

Rathe's smile widened.

"On my way to join the Bard's College."

The Innkeeper smiled at him and there was warmth and honey in that smile now.

"Divines above, would you bless us with a song tonight? We're starved for proper entertainment around here."

Rathe frowned a tiny frown and said, "are you deprived of bardic talent here?"

The woman harrumphed and threw her hands up in the air.

"Well, we have a man claiming to be a bard… but he sure has no _talent_! That's the big oaf over there."

Rathe turned and looked where she was pointing; directly at the ugly orc.

He turned back to the Innkeeper and raised his brows in amazement.

"You mean the orc?"

"Mm Hm. Thinks he has Dibella's own pipes and Julianos's fingers on the strings. He's…. _very_ much mistaken!"

Rathe leaned over the counter conspirationally and said in a low tone, "perhaps if you can rustle me up something to drink, I'll go and have a little chat with yon orc and find out where he acquired his training. Can't have you plagued with an untrained bard now!"

The Innkeeper smiled widely and whispered, "Bless you! Bless you indeed. What drink do you have a thirst for?"

"Wine. Strong."

She nodded and smiled as Rathe turned away and headed towards his next target; Lurbuk the orc bard.

The orc was busily inhaling a tankard of strong ale; his back to the common room and fully absorbed in his drinking.

Rathe flopped onto the bench beside the orc and sat back in a relaxed posture.

The orc turned and looked at him with bleary bloodshot eyes.

Rathe tossed him a smile.

"You don't mind if I sit here friend?"

The orc shrugged nonchalantly and continued to down his cup of ale.

"Yon Innkeeper tells me you're a bard."

The orc glanced sideways at the man and burped.

"Yeah, what's it to ya? Want to hear a tune?"

Rathe's smile widened.

"No friend, not just now. I myself am musically inclined. On my way to the Bard's College."

The orc made a snorting noise.

"Well good luck with that friend. You better have the right amount of septims to line some pockets or you won't be getting an invite into those hallowed halls."

Rathe frowned.

"What do you mean? Surely they take on members based on talent?"

The orc clucked his tongue and grunted, "What kind of world do you think you're living in? I went to the college with all my talents and Malacath bestowed gifts and they told me to sod off."

Rathe bit the inside of his cheek to prevent the smile from spreading across his lips. He well remembered the orc's _talents_ on his last visit to the Moorside Inn. At first he'd sat bolt upright in bed thinking someone was torturing a cat before he realised it was the bard singing.

"Truly?"

The orc nodded and sucked deep on his ale.

"Why else would I be wasting my time in a dump like this?"

Rathe nodded slowly. He decided the time was nigh to shift the conversation to true intent.

"So, you live here then?"

Lurbuk grunted again.

"Jonna lets me stay here cheap. In return I do odd jobs around the place. You'd think she'd let me pay in song but she said she doesn't want to exploit me. Kind lass."

Again Rathe had to sink his teeth into his cheek to halt the smile that threatened.

Rathe feigned a yawn and murmured, "I didn't realise the hour was so late. I fear I may have kept you awake past a reasonable hour?"

The orc snorted.

"No, I never sleep before the wee hours of dawn. A bard's creativity is stirred by night's embrace."

_and a good many cups of ale_ Rathe thought.

He clapped the orc on the back, thanked him for the chat and headed back to the Innkeeper who had a meal of bread and cheese with roast pheasant waiting for him. Rathe took in a small amount of food before retiring to his rented room with a wine bottle in hand.

He stopped in the doorway of the rented room and his heart fluttered in his chest.

It was the very same room he and Fleur had rented months previously.

The room where he'd taught her to use a crossbow.

The room where he'd first smelled her scent of mountain flowers.

The room where he'd threatened to kill her if she ever made attempt on his own life.

_Gods. What I put that girl through._

The thought came unbidden and was enough to send him staggering for a chair. He sat heavily and groped for the cork that stoppered the dark liquid from the bottle. He yanked it out impatiently and gulped half the bottle in one long pull. As the hot biting liquid set to work warming his throat and stomach, the after effects sent his head reeling with light headed fuzziness.

He caught sight of a poorly preserved bear head trophy that was mounted to a wall.

He got to his feet and strode to the trophy, taking another pull of wine as he moved.

Great gaping holes and tears pockmarked the trophy where someone had used it as target practice for the devastating bolts of a crossbow. He fingered one of the rips in the skin and the ghost of a smile came to his lips.

How Fleur had shocked him when she'd first held that crossbow and unleashed bolt after bolt into her target. He could still see that triumphant, rascal smile that she'd bestowed upon him after making her shots.

The hand holding the wine bottle shook and Rathe wandered over to the bed and sat heavily upon it.

He had nothing to do but wait until Lurbuk decided to take his rest.

He had nothing to do but wait in this haunted room that crammed his head with unwanted and unwelcome memories.

He drank.

Rathe silently watched Jonna from the shadows of his room.

He'd heard the orc make his goodnights over an hour ago but still the Redguard didn't leave her counter to take her own rest. He began to wonder if she worked nights while someone else worked days.

Regardless, he couldn't very well enter Lurbuk's room to dispatch the orc without her noticing.

He had to find some way of blinding her to his true intent.

The first option he considered was the most simple and efficient.

Kill her.

But Rathe didn't make it a habit of killing bystanders if he could avoid it. He also didn't make it a habit of taking the most obvious solution because it was the easiest.

So he pondered as he watched the industrious woman scour pots and clean crockery.

She was reasonably attractive he decided. In a minimalist kind of way. She didn't have the fiery beauty of Astrid nor the sweet innocence of Fleur, but there was something about her that made one look twice.

Rathe frowned and decided he could use this to his advantage.

He stepped from the shadows and approached Jonna quietly.

"Good evening."

She didn't hear him until he spoke, and she jumped violently in shock.

"Gods! You startled me!"

Rathe smiled apologetically.

"Sorry, I should have announced myself. You were so engrossed in your work…"

Jonna smiled and fluttered a hand in front of her face. She was breathing rapidly but smiled in response.

"No need to apologise. I _do_ tend to get carried away in my own little world when I work."

Rathe eased himself onto a bar stool and rubbed his chin.

"You're not soon for bed?"

The woman grinned and said, "that's very forthright now, isn't it?"

Rathe allowed himself to blush and stammered, "no, that's not what I meant - "

Jonna chuckled.

"Pay no attention to me stranger, I jest."

Rathe gazed into her dark eyes and turned the volume up on his smile. He could see her respond in kind and lean on the counter.

"Truthfully, I take only a few hours during the day when Idgrod the Younger comes to relive me. I haven't slept through a night in thirty something years."

Rathe leaned in to her and said in a low tone, "You look far too young to have seen thirty something years…"

Jonna grinned.

"Flatterer."

Rathe shrugged helplessly.

"I'm a bard. It's what we do."

Jonna glance down at the counter. She was indeed flattered that this handsome young man would find her interesting enough to leave his warm bed in the small hours of dawn to come and speak with her. She glanced up at him and wondered if tonight might be the night she broke a three year long drought.

"Care for a drink?" she asked in a low tone.

Rathe's lips widened and he whispered, "I thought you'd never ask."

Jonna took two tankards from beneath the counter and fumbled around for a bottle of good red wine. She poured carefully, fully aware of the man's strange, pale eyes fixed on her. They took up their tankards and when he clinked his against hers, Jonna said, "to flattery."

They both drank deep of the wine.

Jonna settled her tankard on the counter and looked at the attractive man before her. She suddenly realised she didn't even have his name. She opened her mouth to ask when he interrupted.

"I have a hunger… would you have some brie to accompany this drop?"

Jonna blinked for a moment and finally nodded.

"Of course… just let me fetch a wheel from the back."

She slipped away into the back room to fetch the tastiest wheel of cheese she could find and in the small amount of time it took for her to locate, sniff and return with the cheese, the Shadow-Walker perched on the stool before her had already spiked her wine and slipped phial back into a concealed pouch.

Rathe ate the salty brie slowly and enjoyed the tangy wine on his tongue. He flirted with Jonna and watched as she began to sway on her feet. When she finally succumbed to the sleeping draught and crashed to the floor, he crept quietly around the counter to check on her.

A small snore was already issuing from the mouth.

The Shadow-Walker rose and walked quietly but with purpose through the now empty Inn.

Another snore, this time loud and grunting, soon came to his ears and he followed the noise to a small, one bed room.

There, on top of the covers and still clad ion his clothing, lay the orc bard Lurbuk.

Rathe noticed an old hunting bow and set of fine quivers leaning up against Lurbuk's dresser. For the sake of old fashioned nostalgia, he decided to silence the orc permanently with bow and arrow. Many had been the kills he'd made with bow and arrow; it had long been a calling card of the Phoenix, his moniker from days gone past.

He slid arrow from quiver and took the crude bow in hand.

He pulled back and sighted down the end of the arrow.

The arrow released.

Lurbuk's heart was punctured and he died without inflicting one more note from his tuneless mouth onto the world.

Rathe threw the bow and quiver on the floor beside the dead orc.

He left Moorside Inn while night still clung to the sky and a blizzard blew its cold kiss across the land.

His destination… Nightgate Inn.


End file.
